“No. It’s bloody rough. I’ve never been sea sick but this is getting at me,” Andrew replied.
Marjorie added, “I will be sick if we keep doing this.”
Luckily for her they didn’t. The ‘Catalina’ banked and then straightened up, to make a landing circuit. Once again the turbulence was bad and Willy felt a few uneasy twinges as the machine sank and swooped in the heated air. One particularly sickening lurch even had him mutter and say to himself, “Bloody hell, we will join the DC3 if we aren’t careful!”
The buffeting continued, Willy very conscious of the way his seat belt kept pulling at him as the plane dropped and then felt loose as it was lifted abruptly on a thermal. He watched the wings wobble as the pilot tried to hold the aircraft steady.
Stick looked down and said, “We are just passing over that wrecked D.C. 3.”
A very anxious looking Marjorie said, “There are an awful lot of aircraft wrecks around here. I hope it is safe.”
To reassure her Willy said, “This is a good aeroplane, tried and tested.”
“Yeah, sixty bloody years tried. That is old and worn out,” Stick said as another updraught sent them into a sickening swoop.
“It has been fully reconditioned,” Willy said, but as he did the aircraft dropped suddenly, sending his stomach into his throat. A niggling little worry about pieces of wire being repeatedly bent caused him to think that perhaps something could go wrong with such an old aircraft. ‘Landing and taking off are the most dangerous times,’ he reminded himself.
Then the plane lurched, slewed and dropped.
CHAPTER 18
TORRES STRAIT
Just as Willy felt a rush of fear the pilot regained control. Willy heard the engines roar and saw that the flaps were fully extended. To his relief he saw the boundary of the airstrip slip past underneath. He badly wished he could see out the front and that he was in control. ‘I’m not a good passenger,’ he thought.
By then the landing gear had been extended and Willy watched with interest as the wheel on his side came closer and closer to the ground- dry, brown grass. This was suddenly replaced by bitumen and Willy felt easier. Then the rubber tyre made contact and there was the usual puff of smoke and screeching noise and then they were down, the tyre spinning and rolling easily.
The ‘Catalina’ was taxied in and parked beside a ‘Metro’. Once the propellers had stopped Harvey came through and told them they could all get out and move to the terminal building. They did this, Andrew loudly saying how glad he was to be on the ground again. “I think I’ll stick to ships in future,” he said.
There was quite a welcoming group there. At first Willy just thought they were people who were waiting for an aircraft but then he realized that they were gathered to see the ‘Catalina’. Mr Jemmerling stepped off to a greeting by local leaders and even a news reporter with a camera. Mr Hobbs and Harvey moved Willy and the other the passengers to one side once that was all done.
It was very hot out in the sun and Willy gladly moved to the shade of the terminal, a shed with a small office at one end and toilets on the side. It was stifling inside but still cooler than outside. While there Willy saw a group of school children being led forward to look at the aircraft. To add to Willy’s sense of being in a ‘foreign’ place he noted that nearly all the school children were indigenous. Mr Jemmerling spoke to them for a few minutes, then left the crew to look after the visitors while he walked over to the terminal.
For the next half hour the group enjoyed a picnic lunch. Willy sat with Marjorie and his parents and they discussed what they had seen during the flight. “There is a lot of wild country in Cape York Peninsula,” Willy commented.
“Certainly a lot of nothing much,” his father agreed.
When the school group had inspected the plane the aircrew joined them for lunch. Willy enjoyed a bottle of cold lemonade and was able to relax and even daydream a bit. He found it all quite different, especially being outnumbered by black people. He had seen plenty in Cairns. There were at least fifty at his high school, but in the normal course of his life he rarely met one, other than Torres Strait Islanders like Luke. Here the indigenous people were the majority and on their ‘home ground’.
A cheerful white man in shorts, and open shirt and thongs arrived and announced he was their driver. The group, including the aircrew, was ushered out to where the mini-bus waited. Willy climbed in and allowed Marjorie to sit beside him. When all were aboard they drove out of the car park and along a bitumen road in savannah woodland.
Five minutes later they reached the junction of the road to ‘The South’- to Weipa and Cairns. They turned left and then almost immediately turned left again onto a dirt track through the trees. A minute later they parked near the DC3 wreck.
Willy found the visit to the wreck disturbing and saddening. He noted that the machine must have come down among trees, ripping its wings off and then smashing in its nose and breaking the fuselage in two. When he read that it was a civilian airliner, belonging to Australian National Airways, and flown by a civilian pilot he was surprised. He had assumed it was a military aircraft. Then when he read that the plane had flown all night from Archerfield near Brisbane to Bamaga, with refueling stops at Cairns and Cooktown he shook his head.
‘The pilots must have been exhausted,’ he mused, picturing them trying to do a night landing on an unfamiliar strip. ‘This area is up on a sort of ridge, much higher than the actual runway,’ he noted. ‘Perhaps they just miscalculated how high above the ground they were?’ Whatever the cause, he felt it was an avoidable tragedy. ‘When I am a pilot I will try to be more careful,’ he thought.
What also surprised him was what good condition much of the wreck was in. The aluminium skin and spars mostly looked to be in reasonable condition, only a bit tarnished. Even some of the rubber was still not completely perished. Several parts looked so shiny and new it was hard to believe they had been lying out in the weather for sixty years.
As he studied the mangled and torn wreckage Willy tried to imagine what those last seconds might have been like. ‘Did the passengers have any warning?’ he wondered, ‘or did it all just happen in a few horrible seconds?’
Reading the memorial plaque with the details and the names of the victims made Willy feel even sadder and he could only shake his head. He moved away from the others, not wanting them to see his emotion. It was sweltering hot and he was sweating profusely but he ignored this and moved slowly around, taking photos from several directions.
Then it was back into the mini-bus and they drove back to the main bitumen road and turned right, heading back towards the airport. At the bend which was in line with the end of the cleared strip the bus turned left onto a dirt track. This went east across the end of the airfield and then into the forest. This was real savannah woodland of eucalypts, mostly iron barks, but with thick patches of cycads and an undergrowth of smaller trees.
All the way along this track Willy saw hundreds of rusting 44 gallon drums, obviously left from the war. There were so many he was astonished. “Surely they would have been worth collecting?” he said.
“I think all the good ones were,” Mr Beck answered.
The next site they came to was labeled on the tourist map Mr Jemmerling had as the ‘Kittyhawk’ site. But, to complicate matters, the RACQ road map that Willy’s father had named the site as being that of a crashed ‘Hurricane’.
“I didn’t know there were any ‘Hurricanes’ in this part of the world,” Willy commented. “They had three squadrons of ‘Spitfires’ at Darwin, but I have never heard of the RAAF having ‘Hurricanes’ in Australia.”
None of the others had any answer to that but Mr Beck said, “It may not have been, but in any case, whatever it was, there is almost nothing left to see.”
He was right. In a dusty little clearing among the cycads and gum trees lay a few torn sheets of metal and some unidentifiable pieces of machinery and the remains of a small cairn that had been smashed by vandals. S
eeing the broken memorial really angered Willy. ‘What sort of low, cowardly mongrels would do a thing like that?’ he wondered.
As they stared at the bare earth and paltry remains Stick said, “Not much left alright.”
Mr Johnson, the pilot, said, “Maybe it nose dived in and burst into flames. That wouldn’t leave much.”
“Maybe,” Stick answered. Then he said, “Gawd, I hope there’s a bit more left of the ‘Kittyhawk’ we are going to recover.”
At that Willy felt a stab of anxiety. He noted how Mr Jemmerling and Mr Hobbs both looked at Stick with great interest. “Stick!” he hissed, wishing he could warn him not to say more without being too obvious. Marjorie glared at Stick, who only then realized what he had done. “Oops!” he muttered, making it worse.
As soon as he was able to do so without Mr Jemmerling of Hobbs noticing Willy nudged Stick and hissed, “Stick, be careful what you say.”
“Sorry. I’ll try,” Stick promised.
The next site, the ‘Beaufort’ bomber wreck, was a few kilometres further along on a sandy side track. This wreck had no nose or cockpit section but the tail section and the middle part of the fuselage, including the mid-upper gun turret were plain to see. So was the central portion of the wings, complete with what remained of the two motors and the undercarriage. This section was upside down and Mr Beck explained that the wreck had originally been strewn over a large area but the pieces had been moved to one location.
Once again Willy found it sobering and saddening. He looked at the broken and empty mid-upper gun position and tried to imagine what it must have felt like for the gunner. ‘He would have had no control over what happened,’ he mused. ‘Those last few seconds when it was obvious they were going to crash must have been awful,’ he thought.
Stick studied the wreck from all angles while Willy and most of the others took photos. Willy’s father got him to pose in front of the wreck and then said, “Still want to be a pilot Willy?”
“Yes Dad,” Willy replied firmly.
Mr Johnson, the pilot, gave a short chuckle, then said, “Just remember the old saying young fella: ‘There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old and bold pilots’.”
Willy had heard the saying before but smiled and nodded. “I will,” he replied. He went back to studying the wreckage. As with the DC3 he was amazed that some of the machine parts in the undercarriage were still a shiny silver and there was even intact panels of Perspex in places. Because the fuselage section lay open to view he was able to study in detail how the aircraft had been constructed.
Stick commented on how some of the aluminium was rotten. “Weathered or oxidized,” Willy corrected. Then he saw Stick poke at the skin of the wing with a stick, punching a hole in it. “Stick! Don’t damage it any more,” he snapped, instant anger welling up.
“Sorry!” Stick retorted in a sarcastic tone. “So what? The bloody thing is already all smashed up.”
“Because its.. it’s a war grave, I mean a war memorial. Men died in this plane while serving Australia. It doesn’t show respect,” Willy replied hotly. ‘Sacrilege’ was the word that came to mind but he did not use it. Stick had the good grace to blush but Willy didn’t think he was convinced so he added, “If everyone breaks a bit there will be nothing left in a few years.”
As he said this Willy noted nods of approval from both Mr Beck and Mr Jemmerling.
It was nearly 3:00 pm by then and sweltering hot so Willy was glad to climb back into the relative comfort of the air-conditioned min-bus. He drank another bottle of cold softdrink and wiped perspiration from his face. They were then driven back to the airport. Here there was a half hour wait in the terminal building while the aircraft was refueled. Once the pre-flight checks were done they were told to get aboard.
By this time it was so hot the metal burnt the skin and Willy could see a heat haze shimmering across the airstrip. ‘This could be a bit bumpy,’ he thought. He noted that Marjorie looked quite pale and that Andrew was obviously anxious.
The engines were started and the checks of the controls done, then Harvey climbed aboard and waved the airport attendant away with the wheel chocks. When he was clear and had given the thumbs up to the pilot the ‘Catalina’ began to move, turning and rolling out to the runway. There was no taxiway so they had to taxi along the runway to the end, facing the same way that they had landed. As the ‘Catalina’ pivoted on its port wheel Willy got a clear view along the strip and saw that the heat shimmer seemed to be even worse.
‘I hope this old crate is up to it,’ he thought.
Next the engines roared on full power with the brakes applied and Willy tightened his seatbelt. Harvey came along and checked they were all securely strapped in, then reported to the flight deck. Almost at once the motors roared again and the plane began to roll. Willy was both amazed and concerned at how much it seemed to bounce on the bitumen surface. He saw the undercarriage flexing and the wing tip bending up and down. ‘This is going to be rough,’ he thought.
It was. ‘The Catalina’ roared along the runway and then lifted off alright, despite the bouncing and shuddering, but as soon as it was airborne it began to bump and drop. Willy held on and tried to stay interested but realized he felt scared. As they clawed their way up into the heated air he tried to locate the wreck of the ‘Beaufort’, which he knew was somewhere out in the bush to port, but he was quite unable to. That irritated him and also hurt his pride. ‘I know just where it is. I should be able to spot it,’ he thought.
Once the ‘Catalina’ had gained about a thousand feet it swung around to port and headed North West. The turn took them out over the twisting course of Jacky Jacky Creek and its maze of waterways and mangroves. Willy looked for crocodiles but saw none. All he could detect back to port was the clearing of the airstrip and the smoke of a small bushfire off near the west coast. This showed as a hazy grey line.
Their route took them back over the town of Bamaga and on across the west coast. Once again Willy was struck by how empty of settlement the whole region was, the few dirt roads snaking off through vast areas of bush. Then the west coast of the cape slid by underneath, resulting in much improved flying conditions. Willy looked out with interest and consulted his map. He was able to identify large mass of Prince of Wales Island.
As he stared at this Mr Jemmerling came on the intercom and said, “If you look out to starboard you will be able to see Cape York and Possession Island.”
Willy undid his seat belt and moved to look through Marjorie’s porthole. He identified the tip of the cape and also Possession Island. He was also surprised at how many islands he could see, and at how dry and brown they looked.
As they flew over a small island west of Possession Island he noted that it was almost bare of trees. The sea was very shallow in many places, sand bars and rocky reefs being very evident. “That is the Endeavour Strait,” he said to Marjorie.
“I thought it was the Torres Strait,” she replied.
That stumped Willy a bit. “It is, but the narrow bit between that island and the mainland is named after Captain Cook’s ship.”
He returned to his seat and looked out to port. As he did the eastern coast of Horn Island slid beneath them. Again Willy was surprised. “It is really brown and dry,” he commented, “It looks just like the area near Townsville Airport.”
Now he noted several concrete structures and then whitish circles which he knew to be concrete gun tubs made in World War 2 for anti-aircraft guns. He was aware that there had been an airfield constructed here during the war and was interested to see what physical remains there might be.
The ‘Catalina’ flew right across the island in a few minutes. As it did Willy got a good view of the airport, noting two main runways at right angles to each other. He also saw that the airport was set in an extensive area of dry scrub and that, apart from the cluster of buildings beside the runways the country around it was almost empty of any settlements. A single bitumen road led away to the
west to where a town nestled on the coast at the other end of the island. A few dirt vehicle tracks wound through the bush.
Into view came an area of ocean and then another island. Willy knew instantly that this was the fabled Thursday Island, the ‘T.I.’ of legend. By then the ‘Catalina’ had descended to about 500 feet but the turbulence was not too bad. Through his porthole Willy saw that they were going to do a complete circuit of the island. Mr Jemmerling informed them of this and Marjorie came over to look through his window, leaning over so that her bosom rested on his shoulder and half filled his vision.
Thursday Island was hillier than he had expected. On the eastern end he saw huge wind turbines rotating, generating electricity. Further around, on the north coast, there were water reservoirs and a scattering of houses. The much larger Hammond Island lay close to starboard. The North West corner had another suburb and then he glimpsed the Green Hill Fort.
‘That is a place I would like to visit,’ he thought, when Mr Jemmerling read from the guide book, telling them that the fort was built before World War 1. The hospital and then the main town and wharves came into view. Willy noted numerous small boats on the beach and at anchor, plus a few larger launches, but no ships. He also noted that there were quite a large number of people along the foreshore and out on the wharves.
“They know we are coming and we are going to put on a short display for them and then open the aircraft up for inspection,” Mr Jemmerling explained. “But first we will drop you off on Horn Island where we are staying tonight.”
The ‘Catalina’ then flew the length of the roadstead before banking sharply and coming back even lower and closer to the water. This put Thursday Island on the starboard side. Willy remained in his seat and heard Andrew muttering about seeing a Customs launch and then a navy patrol boat. After flying almost across to Prince of Wales Island the plane swung around and came back on a landing approach. As Harvey came along to check they were all strapped in Willy watched the wing tip float swing down and then the flaps extend.
Coasts of Cape York Page 22
